


The Reason Why

by Storybreather221



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storybreather221/pseuds/Storybreather221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three long years. Sherlock is tired of waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reason Why

Sherlock Holmes generally considered himself to be a patient man. Yes, there were others who might beg to differ when it came to trivial matters such as giving a witness time to calm down and collect herself before interrogating her or letting things cook for a longer time at the appropriate temperature (in all probability, the indirect proportion formula he used to calculate the oven temperature based on the decreased cooking time shouldn’t have set that turkey on fire), but when it came to the important things, waiting for a criminal to make just the right mistake or for more evidence to develop in a case, Sherlock could be very patient indeed.

But three years, it turns out, is far too long for even Sherlock to wait for something important.

Everything was quiet as he entered 221 Baker Street. He knew Mrs. Hudson was out shopping at this time of day and there was no one to intercept him as he slowly made his way to apartment B. Frankly, he was surprised John hadn’t moved out by now, but he supposed there was some, sentimental reason behind his decision to stay. It made him feel grateful, even if he couldn’t completely understand why.

He’d informed John earlier of his arrival. Well, more or less. He’d thought trying to break the news gently would be better than strolling into the apartment with cries of “I’m alive, John! Sorry for making you believe I’d leapt to my death in front of you would you like some tea while we catch up?” So he’d sent him a letter instead.

_John,_  
 _Meet me in our old flat tomorrow afternoon at four and we shall see if three years have entirely taken away my ability to surprise you._  
 _-SH_

A bit cryptic, true, but Sherlock hadn’t be able to resist. The thing about show-offs is that they always have a flair for the dramatic. Life was much more enjoyable that way.

Sherlock ascended the seventeen steps to the flat with caution, taking care to avoid the creaky step on the way up. The closer he got to their door, the louder his pulse thundered in his ears and the quicker his breathing got. Part of him, the rational, everything-else-is-transport part, knew it was ridiculous to be getting so worked up. Yes, he hadn’t spoken to John in three years, and yes he had missed him, but he should have more control over himself. Another part of him, the part he’d thought he’d buried deep within himself until he met John, that part all but screamed at him to run up the remaining few steps, fling open the door and embrace John tightly, promising to never leave him again.

Strange, Sherlock had been certain that three years of separation would have made him less sentimental, not the other way around.

He cleared the last step and hesitated outside the door. This was it. Everything he’d done, every criminal he’d tracked down and every foray he made into Moriarty’s tangled, sticky web had been for this one moment when he could look John in the eye and tell him it had all been for him. To keep him safe.

He hadn’t completely finished his work. There were still a few loose threads that needed tying up, but he expected little trouble with those, particularly if he had John by his side to help him.

 _I can’t wait anymore,_ Sherlock thought, and pushed open the door.

The flat was almost exactly as he remembered it. The shades were drawn back from the windows and sunshine poured into the room. It was a bit cleaner than usual. John, or more likely Mrs. Hudson, had obviously taken the trouble to straighten up and keep everything in order in his absence. Sherlock had expected them to sell his things, or at least pack them away, but even his laptop was exactly where he had left it before the Yard had arrested him and tried to take him into the station. He felt another throb of gratitude that surged through him and slightly eased the strain and toll of the past few years.

Sherlock scanned the flat once, twice, but even his observant eyes couldn’t detect the one person he was looking for.

John wasn’t there.

Sherlock suppressed a pang of disappointment and hurt that shot through him as sharply as a bullet. He took a deep breath and tried to rationalize. Perhaps John had been out and lost track of the time. Perhaps he was on his way right now. Perhaps he’d decided not to come after all.

Sherlock heard the soft _click_ of the safety latch being flicked off of a revolver as someone approached him from behind.

“I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if you try anything I will shoot you.”

Or perhaps he should have been a tad more specific in his letter to dissuade John from the notion that this was a trap.

Sherlock raised his hands in the air slowly, a sign of submission. He’d walked straight into the flat towards the opposite wall, and from the sound of his approach John had come in from the small hallway that led upstairs, so he wouldn’t have seen Sherlock’s face. Of course he would think him an impostor, one of Moriarty’s men probably, taunting him by posing as a dead man. It was a logical conclusion and Sherlock cursed himself for not anticipating it. It would be rather unfortunate for him to finally come back to John only to wind up dead after all.

“I’d advise you against shooting me at least until I’ve had the chance to explain myself properly,” Sherlock said. _I know it has been a long time, but surely you still remember my voice, John._

Indeed, John’s words shook a little when he next spoke, and Sherlock could picture the ex-soldier perfectly in his mind’s eye, his stance steady, his gaze determined, hands gripping the gun tightly but still in complete control.

“Turn around.”

“John--”

“Please, if you really are . . . I need to see your face.”

Sherlock obliged, pivoting slowly on the spot until he and John were looking each other in the eye for the first time in three years.

John had lost weight, but not enough that it was unhealthy. Seven, maybe eight pounds at most. Bits of gray were starting to creep up in the hair by his ears, and his skin was no longer as tan as it had once been. Sherlock’s mind noted these small details as his eyes stared at John’s face, taking him in, registering nothing more than the fact that he was there and he was John and he didn’t have to lie to him anymore.

“My god . . .” John gasped through parted lips, his own blue eyes wide as he stared at Sherlock as if at an apparition which to John, Sherlock supposed, he was. He honestly didn’t know whether it would be more comforting to speak and try to explain himself or to wait until John made the first move. He decided on the latter and stood with his fists stuffed into the pockets of his coat, making no move to cross the three feet that separated them until John was ready.

“Are you real?” John seemed afraid, as if simply asking this question would cause Sherlock to disappear in a puff of smoke.

“You know better than to ask questions like that,” Sherlock answered with a smirk. “I am as real as you may consider anything else to be, such as that gun in your hands which would certainly cause a very real wound if you were to shoot me.”

John started as if he’d only just remembered he was still pointing his gun at Sherlock’s heart and lowered it quickly.

“Are you alive, then?” he asked. Sherlock smiled.

“Better,” he said. “Yes, John, I am as alive as you.”

“I thought . . . I saw you--”

“I know, and I will explain everything, I promise. I’m sorry I had to keep this from you for so long, but there was a reason for it and I won’t hide it from you any longer. I came back so that I could tell you the truth, if you will allow me.”

“Sherlock . . .”

For a split second, John’s face broke into a smile, a genuine grin of pure joy that told Sherlock in that moment his decision to reveal himself had been the right one. No more waiting and no more secrets. He let a smile of his own flicker across his face as John walked towards him, the afternoon sun lighting up his face as he stepped into view of the window.

The first sound Sherlock heard was the glass shattering as the bullet broke through the pane.

The next thing he saw was blood bursting out of the side of John’s head as it tore through his skull.

John collapsed instantly, his gun clattered to the floor and was quickly covered by the blood that spilled from his head in a seemingly endless rush. His blue eyes, a moment ago filled with so much hope, had dulled, now seeing nothing.

Sherlock lunged forward with a strangled cried that ended with John’s name. Thinking nothing of the window and the assassin who must still be watching, he sank to the floor and grabbed John’s wrist, feeling for a pulse as his treacherous mind remarked upon the irony of their reversed positions, he kneeling and calling and John lying on the ground with streaks of blood across his face.

“John. _John!_ ”

John did not stir, his hand limp in Sherlock’s and the side of his head completely covered in blood, blood, there was so much blood. Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. All he could do was stare at the lifeless corpse he had been supposed to protect.

“No, please, John--!”

Sherlock awoke with a cry, springing up with such momentum that he fell off the small chair on which he’d fallen asleep while waiting for Mycroft’s call about the next target. He lay on the floor for a few moments, panting and completely drenched in sweat, and every time he closed his eyes, even for the briefest of moments he saw John lying next to him, John dead, John with all that blood surrounding his head like the devil’s halo.

Recognizing his surroundings and what had happened, Sherlock quickly pulled himself together. He stood up and ran a shaky hand through his hair, his heart still racing. After taking a few, steadying breaths he turned to the writing desk he’d been sitting at, shuffling through the papers there before selecting a short note written on plain stationary. He glanced at it one last time and then crossed over to the fireplace where the tiny red glow of the dying embers gave off the room’s only light. He tossed the note into the fireplace and prodded it with a poker until it caught fire and burned away, the flames eating at the words and erasing them forever from existence.

_John,  
Meet me in our old flat--_

Sherlock made sure every single inked letter had completely crumbled into ashes before straightening up and backing away. Now that he had regained control over himself he felt irritated. He’d always hated dreams. They were idiotic, irrational projections of the subconscious that people attributed far too much significance to. Sherlock’s phone buzzed as Mycroft rang, announcing that they’d found a potential suspect and that the car was waiting outside. Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and hurried out the door, his mind focused on the task ahead and the remaining loose ends that needed to be clipped.

He didn’t need a dream to tell him what would happen if he failed.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this in my head for awhile now and I finally just sat down and wrote it all out. So many post-reichenbach fics are from John's perspective that I wanted to take a look at Sherlock's reasons for keeping John in the dark. Darn those blasted snipers.
> 
> If you like, please leave a comment, I would really appreciate it!


End file.
